When Mycroft Met Anthea
by JudasFm
Summary: Mycroft doesn't really want a new PA, not after the last one. However, his superiors have other ideas and so he's stuck conducting job interviews and bored out of his mind, at least until one particular candidate walks in. Please R&R!
1. First Meeting

I am bored.

Extremely bored, in fact.

This crushing sense of _ennui_ comes from sitting with two other men, interviewing people to be my new PA. Admittedly much of the tedium is self-inflicted, since I don't _have_ to be present and I'm quite certain that the interview board would much rather I wasn't. However, as I'm the one who's going to end up working with this person, I feel I should have some say in who gets hired...especially since my _last_ PA accepted a bribe of ten thousand pounds to sell my weekly schedule to a foreign assassin. I killed him, of course (the assassin, not my PA) but after that, I'm not happy with the idea of having a virtual stranger working in close proximity to me. Unfortunately, I was outvoted on the matter, which is why I'm now sitting here asking stupid people stupid questions. Interviews have been going on for two days already, not including this morning. Grand total: thirty seven potential PAs and god knows how many more to come. At least half of the candidates we've seen have no training or experience whatsoever, and quite how they got to the interview stage in the first place is a complete mystery even to me.

There's a knock on the door. It's a good knock, firm, but with just the proper amount of deference. It's a knock which says, _I refuse to be intimidated by the fact that I'm applying for a job with the most influential people in the land, but I don't want them to think I'm too aggressive in my methods. I'm confident, but I'm not overbearing._

Yes, I am now so bored I have taken to analyzing the candidates' method of knocking, those that _do_ knock. We've had three so far who have just opened the door and strolled in. Needless to say, they will _not_ be invited back for a second interview. Nor will those who addressed me as _Mycroft, _or passed any kind of comment on my name. I admit it is a somewhat unusual name - I'm not entirely certain what Father was thinking of when he chose it, nor do I know where the name Sherlock came from - but it's rather unprofessional to remark on it.

"Come in," I say.

On a side note regarding names, if anyone is thinking of applying for a job with me, please note that I do _not_ have a nickname. At least, not at work; Sherlock has come up with several for me over the years, but none of them are suitable for use in the workplace and only three of them are fit to be uttered in public. This means that even if your CV is mindblowingly impressive, calling me _Mye _(candidates three and twenty nine) is a guaranteed way to get that same CV tossed on the Reject pile, and if you call me _Mike _(candidate twenty two) there's a very good chance that you will be rejected on the spot.

The new applicant enters, pausing only to turn and close the door behind her, and the three of us rise to our feet. Good manners and all that, although she's the eleventh person we've seen today and all this standing and sitting is beginning to make me feel rather like a yo-yo. I'm also getting hungry; it's been nearly five hours since breakfast, and even then all I had was a grapefruit. I can see how they help a person lose weight; the damn things taste foul and make you feel so sick you lose any inclination to eat, which is why I keep an emergency box of Anthon Berg chocolates on standby. You know. Just to take that vile taste out of my mouth.

I put on my best smile and prepare to go through the whole bloody rigmarole again.

"Samantha Davis, isn't it?"

I know full well it is, but it's as good an ice breaker as any. Besides, she won't be using her real name if she comes to work for me. I notice she waits for me to offer her my hand instead of thrusting hers at me, which is a definite plus.

"Yes sir." Eye contact is respectful, not challenging, and she answers me with a smile. The smile is, of course, purely professional, but that's allowable.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes. These are my associates Henry Townsend and Stephen Pierce. Please, have a seat."

Samantha turns the smile on Henry and Stephen, shakes hands with them, and settles herself on the chair in front of us.

First impressions are good. So far she's only the fifth candidate to address me as _sir_, and I do appreciate that little bit of extra respect (although a lot of the other candidates have addressed me as _Mr. Holmes, _which is also perfectly acceptable). I also like the way she's dressed; a navy suit with white blouse, a small gold pendant and matching earrings. Simple, yet elegant. Shoes highly polished. At least she's dressed up a little for this interview, unlike the last one who turned up in a t-shirt. That's a good sign; it shows she's serious about the job. Makeup is subtle and there's a whiff of perfume. It's very faint, which is another plus point. Too much perfume is worse than not enough deodorant. Her hair is a little too overstyled for my taste, but I can overlook that. It does suit her and besides, I'm looking for a PA, not a wife.

I pick up my copy of her CV and begin paging through it.

"You're quite recently qualified, no real work experience as a PA beyond three months with one of our top import-export specialists."

"Yes sir, that's right."

"Why did you leave?"

Samantha barely twitches as she answers, "My previous employer wasn't able to offer enough work to keep me busy, sir."

"I see." It's an obvious lie. The company she worked for is one of the most successful in the country; there would have been plenty to keep her busy. "You must understand that it's not a smart move to lie at a job interview. Would you care to reconsider your answer?"

She looks me straight in the eyes and says, "With respect, sir, I've also heard that it's a very bad move to complain about a previous employer, regardless of how justified those complaints may be."

Ah! Touché. I can't argue with that, and the background check I performed before inviting her for this interview confirms that she did leave and wasn't fired.

"Good answer," I say. Stephen, who I could see had been about to insist on a proper reply, shuts his mouth and tries to look as though he agrees with me. I could have either him or Henry fired or imprisoned on a whim, and he knows it.

I would like to stress for the conspiracy theorists among you that I would never actually do a thing like that. At least, I would never do it to someone just because they disagreed with me. Stephen doesn't seem to realize this, however, hence his irritatingly high level of sycophancy.

"I understand you're the primary caregiver for your sister's three children," I say, in an effort to keep things moving.

Surprise flashes across Samantha's face, then she seems to come to the conclusion that we will naturally have delved into her background and life with more thoroughness than most employers.

"Yes, that's right," she says.

"Aged eight, six and five."

"Yes. Does that matter?"

"Not in the least," I assure her, which is the truth. How she manages her nieces and nephew is none of my concern; our information shows that she's been doing it effectively enough for the past two years. Take-Your-Child-To-Work-Day may be somewhat problematic, given the level of secrecy involved, but I'm sure we can work around that when it happens.

"Where do you see yourself in ten years' time?" Henry asks.

I dislike admitting to ignorance on any subject, but I must confess that I have never been able to understand the logic behind this question. We're not hiring someone to start work in ten years' time, any subsequent interviews are not going to be held in ten years' time, so what does it matter? Most people struggle to tell you what they will be doing next week, never mind in ten years. Although I would never give him the satisfaction and associated bragging rights of hearing me admit it, I believe Sherlock is right when he describes most of society's conventions as pointless, at least when it comes to certain interview questions.

Samantha meets his gaze and answers, "Well, I hadn't really thought about it, sir. I suppose it all depends."

"Depends on what?" Stephen demands.

"On whether or not you decide to offer me the job."

I smile at that. Another very good answer. So far she seems to be holding her own.

"It says here you enjoy wine bars," I comment, tapping the CV with a finger.

"Yes sir." Samantha seems to have grasped the fact that I am the one she has to impress; her tone when addressing me is a tad more respectful than the one she took to Stephen just now.

"And how often do you frequent these wine bars?"

Samantha hesitates. "I'm not sure. Once a month? Twice, maybe? It all depends. I've never turned up for work drunk, if that's what you mean, sir."

I nod, satisfied. Yes, that is what I mean. Interesting. A PA who's respectful but not awed, professional, dresses well and likes to cut to the chase. So far she's certainly the most promising candidate, although there have been four other quite strong ones.

I can see Stephen getting ready with another of his banal questions (probably _What do you think you can bring to this job_) and jump in before he can get the words out. I cannot, repeat, _cannot_ sit through another twenty minutes of his driveling and mostly pointless questions. The answer to that particular one never varies; it's just a list of virtues delivered in a monotone.

"Well, I think that's all for the minute," I say, and Stephen swallows his banality. "Have you any questions for us?"

"Only one or two, sir." I notice Samantha doesn't have a notebook, which shows a high level of preparedness. Again, I don't object to candidates writing down questions they want to ask beforehand (although having them take notes while we're interviewing them is a step too far in my book) but the fact that she's taken the time to memorize her questions and/or concerns is impressive. I also like the fact that she doesn't immediately start quizzing us about the salary; that one's not an unfair question, but it's not a good one to begin with either.

"Can you give me an idea of what exactly some of my duties will be?"

I raise my eyebrows.

"You read the description," I remind her. "I would have thought it was clear."

"It tells me you're looking for a PA as opposed to an accountant, sir, but I would like a little more detail."

Again, not afraid to stand her ground, albeit in a respectful manner. Yes, I really do like this one.

"More or less anything you're told to do, within reason. The duties at this level aren't that much different from the duties at lower levels; we just pay more."

She smiles. A real smile, not a polite one. That's good as well; I need a PA with a sense of humor. I'm not in the habit of cracking jokes, but many of my colleagues are and they're a little more amenable if there's a beautiful woman laughing at those jokes.

"So, keeping track of appointments, important dates, things like that?"

"Yes, that's the sort of thing." Samantha's workload isn't going to be too strenuous, to be honest. I've been getting along fine without a PA for the last six weeks, and if it were up to me, I wouldn't hire another one at all. I don't want to come into work and find another bloody assassin waiting for me. Dealing with them requires such an expenditure of energy.

"Do you offer additional training, sir?"

"If it's required, yes. Otherwise, it's at your own expense, although there will of course be a certain amount of on-the-job training." Talking about on-the-job reminds me of something else she ought to know and I say, "And you will naturally be working under an assumed name, for added security."

Samantha hesitates. "Sorry, do you mean I have to change my name by deed poll?"

"Oh no," I assure her, "nothing as arduous as that." Not that it's particularly difficult or expensive to change one's name, of course, but updating various documentation is always a fiddle. "It's merely an extra precaution. Think of it as a nickname, if that makes it easier. Have you any preferences, name-wise?"

She thinks about it for a few seconds, then says, "I've always liked the name Anthea, sir."

Anthea. Hmm. A touch old-fashioned, but perfectly serviceable. After all, she's the one who's going to be saddled with it.

"Alright." I rise to my feet, along with Stephen and Henry, and Samantha gets to hers. We shake hands again. "Thank you for your interest. We'll be in touch by the end of the week."

She smiles. "Thank you for taking the time to see me today, sir."

A trifle obsequious that last part, I think as Samantha walks out, but on the whole, not bad. In fact, I'm quite impressed.

Henry glances at me. "Mycroft, we have eighty two more applicants to see. I don't imagine we'll have finished the initial interviews before the end of the week, let alone be onto the next ones."

"We will in this case," I inform him and place Samantha's CV to one side, adding it to the very small pile of candidates who have impressed me. I can't speak for the others who are about to come through that door, but Samantha Davis will _definitely_ be coming back for a second interview...

* * *

**This is just a short three chapter story; I'm not sure where it came from, except that I like writing about the origins of characters, and Mycroft's one of my favorites XD Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!**


	2. Second Interview

**happy oyster: **Thanks :D I'm glad you liked it! Regarding your comments...let's see. You're absolutely right in that most people wouldn't turn up to an interview like that in casual clothes, but it does happen (to coin a phrase, 'there's always one'!) Same goes for the nicknames. While that may seem unbelievable, remember that at this point the candidates don't know for sure who they'll be working for. At this level, it's not uncommon to use different people to conduct the initial interviews; when applying for a job with a large company, you may not actually meet your prospective boss until the second or even third interview. Still unprofessional to try and nickname people, I agree, but they didn't know they were talking to their boss-to-be.

I'm not sure where you live, so maybe it's different, but here in the UK a fixed salary is almost never mentioned in the job description, although there is sometimes a guide. If applying for a job with the government, at least at this level, it would be referred to as an HEO band, which would give you a vague idea (you could tell you'd be earning between X and Y, with about £5K difference between the two) but the final salary would depend on experience and references and whether or not you worked in London; if you do, you earn London Weighting Allowance, which bumps up your salary a little more.

You're right that it's not good to ask about money immediately, but it's fine to start discussing pay in the second interview (if there is one). You're also right about the shrugging; I've fixed it. Thanks for pointing it out XD

* * *

Another round of interviews. We have finally managed to dam the flood of over a hundred candidates to a more manageable trickle of twelve. I'm a little more prepared this time; I want to see these remaining candidates on my own, so I got rid of Stephen and Henry. Stephen wasn't too happy about it, but Henry knows me a little better.

I finish with number eight (Cara Miller, excellent CV and references, professionally dressed, manners impeccable and one of the strongest candidates I've seen today) and announce a ten minute break. I'm desperate for a cup of tea, and good manners won't let me drink one while conducting interviews; doing so strikes me as distinctly unprofessional.

One cup of Earl Grey - cream, three sugars later - and I'm ready to deal with the last four. Two of them acquit themselves rather well. The third lasts two minutes, as the candidate informs me very politely that there has been a death in his family that he only heard about that morning. As it turns out, he wouldn't be able to accept the job as he has to go to Leicester to try and stop his jealous, petty-minded and rather immature siblings from killing each other, which is something I can sympathize with wholeheartedly. It's a shame; he was one of the strongest candidates.

Samantha is the last one in. I confess I did this on purpose, since I want to see how good she is at sitting and waiting patiently (my last but one PA was a little _too_ good at it, as nothing ever got done). I've taken up her references, and each one has come back with a sparkling report, so that's one unpleasant job out of the way.

I rise as she comes in and offer my hand, just like before. She's dressed in a gray suit this time, but with the same subtle elegance she displayed in her first interview.

"Samantha, good afternoon. How are you?"

She shakes my hand.

"Fine, thank you, sir."

"Good." I gesture her towards the seat opposite me and she sits down. Preliminaries over, I decide it's time to ask the one question that's intrigued me ever since the first interview.

"Why did you _really_ leave your last job?"

Samantha hesitates. "As I said, sir—"

"I know it's not a good idea to badmouth your previous employer, but I need to know for the records. It won't stand against you."

At least, the badmouthing part won't; if it turns out she stomped out in a huff because her employer wanted her to work an extra couple of hours, that will _definitely_ count against her. The part about the records is, admittedly, a lie; but it sounds a lot better than _I need to know because I'm nosy_.

Samantha hesitates. I can see her trying to work out how to answer my question while still sounding professional, so obviously whatever happened has strong emotional connotations.

"My last employer behaved in a manner I found...inappropriate and I think I may have been a little too forceful in my protest."

Ah.

"In other words," I say pleasantly, "he fondled you somewhere you didn't want to be fondled and so you slapped him in the face."

There's the barest flinch, just there, in her eyes. I can read her thoughts as clearly as if they're printed on her face; she's frantically trying to work out whether or not she's just lost the job.

"Punched him, sir, but yes."

Well, good for her. There's no danger of her doing the same to me, of course - I'm not interested in any kind of conjugal relationship, least of all with my PA (how cliché can one _get_?) - but I respect any woman who's not afraid to defend herself.

"Did you report his behavior to anyone at your previous workplace?"

"No sir."

That surprises me. Many women scream that kind of thing from the rooftops these days; all you have to do is hold a door open and the next thing you know, you're being accused of sexual harassment. For those of you who believe I'm exaggerating, I'm really not. It happened to a colleague of mine.

"Why on earth not?" I ask.

My continued failure to jump up and order her out of my office seems to have reassured her somewhat. At any rate, she's a lot calmer when she answers.

"Because I didn't think I would win, sir. My employer had worked there for twenty years, his record was impeccable and he was making the company millions in profit. I was just a new, inexperienced PA. It wasn't hard to work out which of us would lose their job if I took it higher, sir."

I nod. It's disgraceful, but it does happen. I've never been one of the bleeding heart brigade, but I've never used my position to take advantage of anyone either, at least not like _that;_ I may not be a particularly nice man, but I am, I hope, a gentleman. Personally, I hope Samantha broke the man's nose, although it would never do to say so here.

"Alright. Let's move on. I know you spent three months working for your previous employer. What kind of skills do you have?"

"I have a typing speed of around seventy words per minute, sir, and I know my way around Microsoft Word, Excel and PowerPoint. I also have a good telephone manner."

"Really?"

"Yes sir, I was a receptionist before training as a PA."

Well, that would certainly account for it. I have to say, I'm a little impressed; Samantha has managed to reel off her abilities without making it sound like bragging, which is no easy feat.

"Are you familiar with shorthand?" I ask.

"I'm learning it at home, sir, but I don't know it well enough to use it yet."

Again, good. No apologies for not being fluent in it, just a simple statement of fact. I make a mental note to look into day release courses; she'll learn it faster there than she will studying on her own, particularly with three young children to look after.

"I also speak French and Italian, sir," Samantha adds.

I glance at her.

"That wasn't on your CV," I say in French.

She doesn't so much as twitch as she replies in the same language, "No sir, because I don't have any qualifications in either language. I learned them at school, but I never took any exams. When I was eighteen, I moved to Lyon and lived there for two and a half years, then I took another job in Milan."

"How long were you there?" I ask, this time in Italian.

Samantha switches to that language and answers, "Five years, sir. I loved it there; it was so vibrant and full of life."

"Why did you leave?" Back to English now; I've got the answers I wanted, namely that she wasn't lying about speaking either language. Her French admittedly has a strong English accent, but her Italian is excellent.

There's a hesitancy about her now. "A year after I moved to Italy, sir, my sister Alison and her husband moved to America. We sort of lost touch I mean, we sent birthday and Christmas cards, but that was it until a few years later when I got a call from a lawyer. He said the two of them had vanished a week ago, leaving their three kids behind. I was the only family member they could find to contact. I wasn't earning enough to support three kids in Italy and my flat was a tiny little studio, so I came back to England and found work in London."

Interesting. "I take it you never found out what happened to your sister?"

Samantha shakes her head. "No sir. Never."

I leave it at that. So far she's doing just as well as she did last week. Now for the crucial question.

I pull out a photograph of my brother and show it to her.

"Have you ever seen this man?" I ask.

She looks puzzled - as well she might; most interviews don't feature mugshots - but takes the picture and studies it for a few minutes before handing it back.

"No sir. Never."

"Are you sure? Think carefully."

"I suppose it's possible I may have seen him in a crowd, but to tell you the truth, sir, I don't remember it if I have. I've certainly never spoken to him."  
Good; she's telling the truth. Two of the candidates I've seen, not counting the one just before her, have turned out to be working for Sherlock. So far my brother hasn't succeeded in planting one of his spies so close to me, and I'm determined that he never shall.

"Alright. Hypothetically speaking, if you were to be offered the job, when could you start?"

"Whenever you needed me. I'm unemployed at the minute, so there's no need for me to work out my notice. Though I would appreciate twenty four hours' notice if possible, sir, just in case I need to organize childcare."

I nod. That's reasonable.

"Have you thought of any further questions?" I ask her. Samantha considers this for a few seconds, then shook her head.

"No sir."

"Alright." I stand up. "Thank you for coming. Someone will be in touch by the end of the week."

Samantha rises with an easy grace and a smile. "Thank _you_, sir."

As soon as she's gone, I drop back into my chair. I'm tired, which doesn't happen very often, and looking forward to getting home and settling down with a glass of brandy and a good book.

No sooner have I thought this than the door flies open and Jonathon Hewitt, one of the least popular men in the building (and it's not just me who thinks this) strolls in.

"Mr. Holmes, glad I caught you. I've been going through some of the CVs—"

"Very good of you," I interrupt, "but entirely unnecessary. I told you before, I'm quite capable of selecting my own PA."

My voice is pure ice, which is rare for me. I don't often dislike people, but Jonathon is one of those irritating exceptions; he lets the nature of his job go to his head. Some idiot recently promoted him to just below me, and ever since then he's been insufferable.

"That's rather unorthodox, Mr. Holmes, don't you think?"

Translation for all of you not versed in diplospeak: _Huh? What the bloody hell are you playing at, Mycroft_?

I sigh. I have never understood my brother, but I do occasionally envy him. It must be so liberating to be Sherlock, able to snap at and insult anyone who irritates you without worrying about the consequences.

"We've been through this," I tell him. "I am the one she will be working for, I am the one who will have to work with _her_, therefore _I_ am the one who will be making the final decision. And in case it slipped your mind, I am _also_ the one who was very nearly assassinated thanks to the last PA you assigned me! Do you really expect me to trust you a second time?"

Jonathon stares hard at me. Maybe it's a look that works on his subordinates, I don't know. It cuts no ice whatsoever with me.

"I think you're capable of defending yourself," he snaps.

This is quite true. I have no fewer than five weapons upon my person at any given time, two of which are inside my umbrella, and every waistcoat I own is in fact a cleverly disguised stab vest of the very highest quality. While I detest physical exertion, I am a very capable fighter should the need arise. However, I am also a staunch believer of the old adage that prevention is better than cure, and even if I am able to dispatch any would-be assassin, I see no reason to encourage them.

"_I_ think you've been sleeping with Henry's PA in Henry's own office," I answer. Unlike Sherlock, I very rarely do this sort of thing it only upsets people but Jonathon is irritating me to distraction and he needs taking down a peg or two. "I hope you don't have any designs on mine; Samantha has my full support when it comes to matters of self-defence."

"Samantha?" Jonathon echoes. "You mean you've chosen already?"

That little slip is as much of a surprise to me as to him, to be honest, but yes. I suppose I have.

"Naturally," I tell him. There's something about Samantha, or Anthea, as I should now call her. She's not the most qualified or experienced candidate, but there's still an air of toughness about her that I like. I get the definite feeling that it would take a lot to rattle Anthea.

Once I (finally) get rid of him and before I leave, I sit down at the desk and type out a letter, formally offering Anthea the job and informing her that if she accepts it, to turn up at eight o'clock next Monday. We'll see how she handles herself in the workplace.

* * *

**So, Anthea has the job...not that there was ever any doubt of that. Next (and final) chapter deals with the first week at work Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!**


	3. First Week At Work

**MONDAY**

It's a quarter to eight in the morning. I've been here half an hour already; I begin work at seven thirty on the dot every morning, usually six mornings a week and finish at nine or ten pm, assuming there are no pressing matters of national importance and that my little brother hasn't swiped something illegal or broken into a top secret military base using my ID. Again.

Samantha/Anthea accepted the job – not that I had any real doubts on that score – but she doesn't start until eight. A trifle unusual, perhaps, but I like some time alone in the office to get my head together before the day begins.

I pull a letter towards me and read it for the third time. Answering mundane correspondence is one task I'll be glad to pass onto my new PA.

At ten to eight, I hear the door of the outer office open. I give her five minutes to get her coat off and find a place to put her bag, then open my office door and walk out.

Anthea, as before, is dressed impeccably, which is good. At least she wasn't just making an effort for the interview.

"Good morning, sir." She's clearly nervous, but that's understandable. Plenty of people experience first-day jitters when starting a new job and so long as her efficiency remains unimpaired, I shan't comment on them.

"Good morning." There's another new addition to the office; a small toy dog about the length of my finger is sitting on Anthea's desk. I believe the breed is supposed to be a Bernese Mountain dog, although I'm not an expert. Since the nose is disproportionately much larger than the rest of the toy, it's a little hard to tell.

"Is he supposed to guard your workplace?" I can't resist asking.

Anthea blushes. "Oh, that's Zip. The kids bought him for me from a charity shop. Sort of a good luck charm."

Ah. Well, Zip is small and unobtrusive enough not to interfere with anything, and Anthea has at least placed him in a corner of her desk not overlooked by anyone coming in.

I give Anthea a list of instructions and a short lesson on How To Use The Phone (perhaps a little unnecessary, but each system is different) and then leave her to it. The first day is always rather awkward; she hasn't been here long enough to start making appointments for me and I rather doubt there'll be a great deal for her to do.

I sit down at my own desk and start sorting through my files, trying to work out which ones I can pass onto Anthea and which ones I should keep under my own control. Obviously she can't deal with any of the more sensitive ones, at least, not until I'm convinced she can be trusted, and some of them will _never_ be passed onto her (my brother's is a case in point) but I suppose she can take over a little.

I've been working on this for about ten minutes when my telephone rings and I pick it up.

"Yes?"

"There's a Carla Giacoppo on line one, sir. Shall I put her through?"

Ah, the delightful Carla. Attache to the Italian ambassador and very much put upon by her employer.

Actually, that's rather unfair of me. The ambassador is an excellent man, as are the rest of the people at the embassy. His wife is also a lovely lady. It's their seven year old daughter Gina who is something of a problem, and I only call her that because it would not be diplomatic to refer to an ambassador's daughter as a spoiled little brat.

Anyway, whatever dear Gina wants, dear Gina gets. Usually this isn't a problem; the family manages to buy whatever is needed. However, since this particular family is living in a government-provided British house – long story – things are slightly more complicated when it comes to things like redecorating, and Carla is always the one who has to act as liaison between the family and myself (dealing with foreign diplomats is a large part of my job).

"Yes, please do." I wait until I hear the familiar _click_, then say, "Good morning, Carla. What's the crisis this time?"

"Gina wants her room redecorating. Tell me we can go ahead, Mycroft, or _I'll_ tell the little diva that it was you that said _no_."

So she's calling from her own apartment. Carla may be under no illusions regarding her ambassador's little darling, but she is still a diplomat and would never describe Gina as 'a little diva' if there were the slightest chance she could be overheard. Nor would she speak to me in such a familiar tone, although I don't object to her doing so in private. Carla is one of those very rare people to whom I enjoy speaking; her straight talking is wonderfully refreshing compared to the tedium of political correctness which surrounds me in this job.

"You realize it is a very serious offense to try and blackmail a government official, don't you?" I ask idly.

"It is _also_ a very serious offense to strangle your ambassador's brat," Carla points out, "but this is what's going to happen if I have to spend another five minutes listening to her bitch about the color of the frigging wallpaper!"

"My, my, my. Such language for a diplomat. You didn't learn words like that in school, I know."

"No, I learned them during my first week in London. Come on, Mycroft; it's just a formality. A courtesy call. They don't want to change anything without making sure it's okay."

"Then tell them as far as I am concerned, they may paint the walls orange with blue spots. The same goes for replacing the carpets, the curtains and any pieces of furniture your ambassador's dear little angel may require."

"Dear little—" That's as much as I understand of Carla's Italian response. My Italian is excellent, though I say so myself, but I've never heard _that_ word before. I don't suppose it's in many dictionaries either.

"Feel better?" I ask.

The line goes dead and I chuckle to myself. Serves her right for teasing me about the time I had to spend two hours in Gina's company.

The rest of the day passes mostly without incident. Since Sherlock has evidently decided not to cause any trouble until later in the week, Anthea is able to leave at five thirty (I also like the evenings to myself and she does have three children to take care of).

So far I'm certain that I made the right choice. Anthea has been efficient and professional. Not only that, she's punctual, which is good. I do abhor tardiness.

**TUESDAY**

I'm three hours late this morning as I had to attend an emergency meeting concerning the latest news from North Korea. Quite _why_ this meeting was called is a mystery to me. I suppose saying that we're meeting to discuss the current situation sounds a little better than saying we're doing absolutely nothing.

As soon as it's over (which takes rather a long time considering we're just rehashing things that can be found on Google; none of our people have any _new_ intelligence to bring to the table) I walk straight to my office. God knows how much paperwork has accumulated during my absence.

Anthea is working at her desk when I arrive. There's already a marked change in the outer office; the rather haphazard arrangement of files has been changed for an alphabetized version. Since the outer office is the PA's domain, I don't comment on this. If she rearranged _my_ files, it would be a different matter, but she's free to organize her own office and workspace however she pleases, and this way is certainly more efficient than my last PA's system. And it's good to know she has enough initiative to find work for herself.

There are six messages on my desk, five of which can be ignored. I make a mental note to give Anthea a list of people to put through to me, a list of people to take messages from and a list of people she is _not_ to put through under any circumstances, and instructions to fob off the rest, something I should have done in the beginning.

The sixth message concerns someone I've been trying to track down for two months. There's no news; just a note saying that our latest lead was a dead end. Damn.

Anthea at least has enough sense to give me fifteen minutes to get sorted before knocking on my door. I hope she doesn't expect any small talk...although now that I think about it, I should have said good morning. Blast.

"Yes?"

She pushes the door open and walks up to my desk.

"Well?" I say as politely as I can. I do try and treat my staff with as much courtesy as is feasible – being Anthea's employer doesn't give me the right to be rude to her – but I have a nasty suspicion that today is going to be one of _those_ days.

"You have four messages from someone called Bella, sir. She says it's not working out."

Make that a certainty. Damn _and _blast.

"Did she say why?"

"No sir. She just told me to tell you that it's not working out, and that you would know what that meant. She wouldn't give me her last name either."

"Was that all the message?" I ask.

"More or less, sir. The messages did get a little closer together and more hysterical in nature. I tried to get her number, but she wouldn't give that to me either."

That's good. Bella's job depends on the utmost secrecy; giving out her phone number or last name could prove to be rather unpleasant. Hers is a rather informal job; I've sent her to spy on my brother and his little Homeless Network. I have no problems with Sherlock helping out the homeless – since he used to be one of them, I can even understand it – but I would like to know how many people he has at his beck and call. But if Sherlock found out anything about Bella, including the fact that she spies for me...well, sexism is not one of my brother's faults; he's just as happy to hospitalize a female spy as a male one.

"Alright. Thank you."

Anthea turns and walks back to her office. As soon as she's closed the door, I open up my laptop and tap into the security cameras around London, searching for Bella.

There. Next to an electronics shop and quite near a phone box. I get the number from one of my databases and dial the number.

Bella leaps to answer it and in doing so blows her cover as an innocent homeless person who just _happens_ to be standing there.

"Is that you?" she asks and immediately wins the contest for Most Imbecilic Phone Response.

"Yes, it is. I assume this is urgent," I say, putting as much displeasure into my voice as I can manage.

"Sir, they're getting suspicious. I think they suspect something."

I close my eyes. "Well, that _is_ the widely accepted definition of suspicious, yes. What makes you think that?"

"Just...to start with, I'm no further forward than I was when you sent me out here. I mean, I've spoken to a couple of people, but none of them are willing to help me."

"Then try someone else."

"I've tried! I've been talking to every homeless person I can find and most of them are nice enough, but the moment I mention any kind of network they all clam up!"

That's a little strange. I can't think they would 'clam up' unless they knew something about it.

"Then mention it to someone else. Is there anything else you need?"

"I could do with some money. Just a tenner."

I sigh. This isn't the first time she's made this demand. While I understand that she needs it – the only way to be a convincing homeless person is to _be_ homeless, which is why Bella's been living on the streets ever since taking on this assignment – I can't afford to have my brother or one of his little spies seeing her getting money from one of my people.

"_Goodbye_, Bella," I say and put the phone down. She's just going to have to cope without for the time being, although if she's right and it's not going anywhere then I suppose I'll have to recall her at some point. What I can't understand is _why_ it's not going anywhere. I know she wouldn't be able to fool Sherlock, but I would have thought she could winkle information out of a few homeless people easily enough.

I need a second opinion and so I pick up my phone and dial my PA's number. Might as well ask her as anyone.

"Anthea?"

"Yes sir?"

"If you wanted to slip a spy into an organization, how would you go about it?"

She hesitates for a second or two, then answers, "I suppose I would try and put my spy into a social setting, maybe arrange for them to meet some members of that organization in a bar or something, then use that setting to try and gain their confidence."

I nod, although she can't see the gesture. That's exactly how I did it (with the exception of the bar, of course). So why hasn't it worked?

"Thank you," I say and put the phone down. I've clearly missed something regarding Sherlock's Homeless Network, but what?

**WEDNESDAY**

Zip has been joined by two small photographs; one of Anthea's nephew and two nieces, the other – and I confess I'm guessing – of her sister and brother-in-law. I don't say anything; so long as she doesn't turn her desk into a photo gallery and repository for small stuffed animals (oh, it's happened) it's none of my business what she keeps there. I have a photograph of Mother in my office, although I keep it in a desk drawer unless I know she's coming to visit, which, thank goodness, is _not_ a frequent occurrence. I can just about tolerate her gushing over me on my Sunday pilgrimages home, but having her come and do it at work is embarrassing.

I still haven't worked out what I've missed with that Homeless Network, and I'm beginning to feel the first stirrings of frustration. It would be the perfect way to keep an eye on my little brother, so why isn't it working out?

I don't have as much time to think on it as I would like, though, as there's a meeting about some of our less top secret field agents at ten. To avoid the meeting place being bugged (some paranoid policy or other) the locations for this little gathering change on a monthly basis. This month it happens to be in my office, which means that Anthea is going to be taking the minutes. I sympathize with her; it's possibly the dullest job in existence, but nevertheless a vital one.

The others all arrive in good time and there are a few moments of polite chitchat – tedious, but apparently necessary – before we sit down and start on the real business.

At least, I believe that's the plan. Unfortunately, Douglas Trent, who's an idiot even by normal people's standards, has apparently decided to stir things up.

"Before we begin – and I know this isn't on the agenda – I want to discuss agent four-two-one-A."

Why this can't wait until Any Other Business, I'm not sure, unless of course it's to do with his pitiful power complex that stems from a disastrous first date he had twenty years ago. There's a sudden rustling as everyone sifts through their papers to find out who Agent Four-Two-One-A is. Fortunately such a measure is unnecessary for me, as I have the entire list stored in my memory. The agent in question was recently invalided home with a shattered knee and ankle; it turned out that the enemy wasn't quite as stupid as he thought.

"I thought we might offer him a bonus," Douglas says.

I raise my eyebrows.

"For what?" I inquire. "Getting caught?"

"Mr. Holmes, this agent will require a personal mobility aid for the rest of his life."

"I beg your pardon?" I say as politely as I can. Anthea leans in my direction.

"I believe Mr. Trent is referring to a walking stick, sir."

Douglas actually _winces_.

"Personal mobility aid," he corrects painstakingly.

"Oh, for goodness' sake! It's bad enough we have to tell the public to talk like this; can't we at least dispense with all this politically correct nonsense among ourselves?"

This little outburst doesn't come from me – although a small part of me wishes it did – but from Henry.

"We ought to set an example," Jonathon points out. No surprises there; he's Douglas' main lackey. I think he has his eye on the older man's job, which he will only get over my dead body.

"To whom? We're the only ones here."

I don't say anything, although privately I agree with Henry. I can just about understand, for example, why a Caribbean person may take offense at being referred to as African (and vice versa, although that doesn't happen very often) but I don't see how the phrase _walking stick_ can be deemed offensive.

Jonathon glances around and his gaze falls on Anthea. "Well...her, for a start."

"If you are referring to my PA, her name is Anthea and I suggest you use it," I tell him."

"Mr. Holmes, if you—"

"Gentlemen—" Henry's voice cuts across— "and ladies," he adds with a slight inclination of the head toward Anthea— "I believe we were discussing our field agent?"

"No; Douglas was discussing the field agent!" That's Oliver, who I know just by reputation; he's young and only recently come to work here. "The rest of us were trying to get on with this meeting. Can't you save it until the end? Look, first item on the agenda is this business with one of our diplomats in Seoul who came down with...food poisoning? What's that got to do with us?"

I sigh. "Probably nothing, but one of us should look into it. And by _one of us_, I'm not referring to myself, you understand." Dealing with this kind of incident can be extremely time consuming and _very_ tedious.

"Nor me," Oliver says before the others can get a word in. "I'm new, I don't have the experience necessary to handle such a delicate matter."

_Nor the subtlety_, I add in the privacy of my own mind. Still, the boy's quick on the uptake and probably right about lacking the necessary experience, so I'm not going to call him on it.

Henry, who is just as quick on the uptake, speaks up. "And I have too much on. So, that leaves you, Douglas, and Jonathon. I'm sure you can sort it out between you. What's next?"

Next item turns out to be an even more tricky situation involving an incident in Afghanistan. This is really more a matter for the MoD, but they're rather good at ducking responsibility when it comes to things like this. I'll have to handle it myself.

The rest of the meeting proceeds smoothly enough, and a little subtle manipulation on my part and not-so-subtle irritation on Oliver's ensures that Douglas' concerns about the field agent are forgotten by the time we get to the end of the meeting.

When the others have left, Anthea vanishes into her office. Fifteen minutes later, a neatly typed copy of the minutes arrives via email for my approval.

Well, that's one tedious chore taken out of my hands. Maybe having a PA isn't going to be so bad after all.

**THURSDAY**

There is now a cactus on Anthea's desk. Since it is a very small one, I let it go (the cactus my last PA brought in was eight inches tall with inch long spines and could quite possibly have been classified as a lethal weapon. I'm not sure what happened to it after its owner got fired. I think Stephen took it home with him).

Anthea's, however, is a tiny little bob of a thing about half as tall as my thumb. I suppose she can decorate her desk however she pleases, but I do hope she's not one of those adult women who is obsessed with being 'cute' and acting their shoe size as opposed to their age.

"Sir? There are another eight messages from Bella."

Oh dear God, what _now_?

"Alright. Thank you."

The messages all say more or less the same thing in varying degrees of hysteria: _this isn't working, I can't do it anymore, I want to stop. _Hardly new, hardly interesting.

Don't mistake me. I'm not suggesting for one moment that living on the streets is easy for Bella, but the thought has occurred that she's rather milking it (a pre-wrapped sandwich does _not_ cost five pounds, unless of course one happens to be at Wimbledon).

I don't have a great deal of time to work out a suitably scathing reply though, as fifteen minutes after receiving that last message, my office door opens and Bella comes in.

It takes me a few minutes to recognize her, since her face is striped with blood. For a few minutes she just stares at me, eyes wide, then she breaks down and starts to sob.

I have to admit that Anthea's professionalism during all of this is nothing short of marvelous; she acts as though a disheveled and bleeding homeless woman bursting into the office and subsequently into tears is a regular occurrence. Before I can think to instruct her, she's fetched the first aid kit, a mug of water and a cloth, sat Bella down and begun sponging the blood off the other woman's face, allowing me to examine her injuries more closely.

It isn't a pretty sight. Someone has carved the word SPY into her forehead in beautiful copperplate...well, I don't think I can call it _handwriting, _but you know what I mean. The flawless calligraphy means there was more than one person involved; two, possibly three or four to hold her down, and another to cut the words into her skin. There are other cuts as well; three horizontal, parallel lines on each cheek. All of them are shallow enough not to be dangerous, but I'm fairly certain they'll scar.

"How did they find out?" I ask.

"I don't know." Bella's voice is hoarse and she's gulping in air, quivering all over. "They said they don't like people pretending to be homeless."

"But you are homeless," I point out. I've had people watching her just to make sure nothing really unpleasant happens (and those people are in for a serious dressing down over this incident) but other than that she's been on her own.

"Yes, but apparently I don't qualify for that stupid Network!"

I lean back in my chair, turning this new piece of information over and over in my mind while Anthea continues sponging Bella's face. I assumed Sherlock would take any homeless person he found into his Network. It never occurred to me that he would have some kind of screening process. Disturbing.

There's only one person who can clear this up. As a reward for her professionalism, I decide to spare Anthea the ordeal of calling my brother (Sherlock likes to play with my people's minds) and dial the number myself. It's picked up on the second ring.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"You've gone too far this time," I tell him.

"Oh hello, brother _dear_." Sherlock's voice is warm, friendly, and full of honeyed malice. Damn Bella for giving him an opportunity to gloat over me! "How's your little spy?"

"Get a cab, get over here _now_. I'm serious, Sherlock."

"You're always serious."

"_Now_!" One of the design flaws in a mobile is that you can no longer get a sense of satisfaction from slamming down the receiver, so I have to settle for pushing the button to end the call in as aggressive a manner as I can.

Anthea hesitates, clearly unsure whether or not she should still be here.

"As soon as he comes in, show him into my office and then make us some drinks. Coffee, black with two sugars and one cup of Earl Grey with cream and three sugars," I instruct her. "And do have one yourself if you want it," I add. Stinginess has never been a Holmes trait and I've learned that PAs appreciate these little gestures of thoughtfulness.

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir." Anthea turns and walks out noiselessly (I had the laminate floorboards in my office replaced with carpeting after the clicking of my first PA's high heels almost drove me to distraction).

I don't know how she does it – I don't know how _any_ PA does it, for that matter – but somehow the drinks are ready about two seconds after Sherlock swaggers into my room. I wish I could think of a kinder word, but it _is_ a swagger; he's inordinately pleased with himself and wants the whole world to know.

"Good morning. I see your would-be mole made it safely back." He smirks at Bella, who doesn't meet his eye, then waves away the coffee Anthea's offering him. "No thank you."

By Sherlock's standards, this is astonishingly polite, and I raise mental eyebrows.

"It's not poisoned, you know."

"I prefer not to take that risk, brother _dear_."

I hate it when he calls me that. It's not the words I mind so much as the fact that he only uses them when he wants something, which is extremely rare, or when he thinks he's got one over on me. I don't think he believes I would murder him, but I do know that he wouldn't put it past me to drug him.

"For goodness' sake! It's safe to drink."

Sherlock takes the mug from Anthea. For a moment I think he believes me, then he holds out the mug.

"Show me."

Any hesitation on my part will be taken as confirmation, even though I despise coffee. I take it and force myself to drink a little over half, then hand it back.

"Satisfied?"

"About that, yes. Now let's talk about your insulting attempt to spy on me."

There's a strong feeling of barely contained fury about him. I'm not afraid as such, but Sherlock's a street fighter and that combined with the fact that his desire to hurt me is far stronger than my desire to hurt him means that I'm not entirely sure who'd win in a fight between us.

"Yes, alright," I say. "Indulge me, Sherlock; how _did_ you know she was a spy?"

I don't know how a person can smirk with their eyebrows, but somehow my little brother manages it.

"Making her a drunk was your first mistake, brother _dear,_" he tells me. "I don't use drunks, nor do I use people who are dependent on any other kind of substance. I also don't approach people who have been on the streets for less than a month, not unless a Networker recommends them to me. Nobody outside the Homeless Network besides you and me even knows it exists, so how would a perfect stranger have come to hear about it? Second mistake. And your third was in thinking that all homeless people are sweet hard-luck stories who just smile and thank you prettily when you remember to give them your pocket change. Poor Bella had to pay a very high price for your complacency."

I fume for a few seconds. He's right, of course, I did make those mistakes, but that doesn't mean I want to hear about it.

"Scarring her for life seems a little harsh."

"I wasn't the one who scarred her. And I wasn't the one who came up with it either. It just seems to have caught on. Anyway, very few of my Networkers do it."

I think he's telling the truth. My brother has his faults, but I can't imagine him coldbloodedly marking someone in such a fashion; his style is more throwing people down stairs or out of windows.

"Anyway," Sherlock continues, "spies who are captured in enemy territory are not entitled to fair treatment, Mycroft. You of all people should know that."

I do, of course, but I hardly think it applicable in this instance.

"And so you instructed your people to do this?" I indicate the weeping Bella as Exhibit A.

"Hardly. They don't need my influence to hate spies, and someone with a well-paid job and a nice flat pretending to be homeless really gets on their tits, as half of my Network would probably say. Well, you can hardly blame them, can you? To them, being homeless is a rather unpleasant reality. To this new person, it's more of a game."

"I want whoever did this out of your Network, Sherlock."

Sherlock chuckles. "Oh, don't be absurd. I wasn't there and I didn't order this, so I'm not sure who did it. They're so devoted to me, some of them."

I can believe that. To a certain extent I can also understand it; Sherlock takes homeless people and gives them work, lets them earn money as opposed to having to beg for it, gives them a sense of self-respect and in some cases even takes them off the street entirely and gives them their life back. I imagine I'd be devoted to someone who did something like that for me.

"You must be able to find out," I say.

"I probably could, but I'm not going to. Thank you for calling me here though; at least now I know for certain that whoever did this didn't slice up an innocent woman." Sherlock studies Bella closely. "The forehead may have been a little extreme, I admit, but she's still alive. Since the last of your pets ended up in the Thames, I would have thought she'd count herself lucky."

"Who did it, Sherlock?"

"Remember fifteen seconds ago when I told you I wasn't going to tell you? Nothing's changed since then, except you're starting to bore me."

I refuse to rise to this, since I know full well that's exactly what he wants.

"I was thinking Scart," I say. Scart is a nineteen year old whose devotion to Sherlock borders on zealotry. I have no doubt in my mind that the boy would eat a hornets' nest (complete with occupants) if my brother expressed the slightest wish in that direction.

Sherlock chuckles. "Then you weren't thinking at all, brother _dear_. Scart's nowhere near this subtle; if he'd been the one to find your little spy, he'd crush her fingers with a brick or slam her head in a car door. This degree of finesse—" he reaches out, then smiles when Bella jerks her head away from him and turns his attention back to me— "isn't his style, and it really isn't his handwriting. In fact, I'm not entirely certain he _can _write. Perhaps Carly, although like I said, I don't know for sure. I don't really use them as assassins."

That's certainly true. For all his faults, Sherlock has never used his Network for anything sinister.

"How many are there in your Network?" I ask.

"Enough. Too many for you to slip your dear little spies in, brother _dear, _especially since I changed the criteria for admission."

"Be more specific." I sip at my tea.

Sherlock's eyes glitter as he answers, "A little over eighteen hundred, and new members are coming in on an almost daily basis. I fully expect to have at least two thousand by the end of the year."

The air goes out of my lungs and I slump back, pale. Eighteen _hundred_? I had expected forty, maybe fifty.

"You can't—" I begin.

"Of course I can. I very much doubt that you would be able to interfere."

He's right, damn him. Interfering with a man who's helping the homeless is not going to look good.

Sherlock clinks his mug down on my desk. All trace of humor and mockery is gone now; he's looking at me as though I'm something he's trodden in. All at once, I can sense the cold intelligence behind those eyes and I know that I have, to use a common phrase which I personally abhor, 'blown it'. Somehow I have gone from being his elder brother to his most hated enemy. Or...no, let's not fool myself. I've been his most hated enemy for years. In fact, I can't recall a time in our childhood when Sherlock _didn't_ hate me with every fiber of his being. My little brother was born hating me.

I just wish I knew exactly _why_.

"Now, here's what's going to happen, Mycroft. You will stop any further attempts to infiltrate my Network or _I_ will have the next spies returned to you without their fingers. I needed you to get my half of the trust fund and now that I have it, you're of no further interest to me, so stay the hell out of my life. I will _not_ warn you again."

He rises to his feet, turns with that animal grace of his that I have always secretly envied, and strides out, slamming the door behind him.

I sigh.

"Sir?" Anthea says after several minutes have gone by. "Do you want me to call this lady an ambulance?"

I stir a little. She's right; I can't sit and brood over my family dynamics, not with a near catatonic Bella bleeding on the carpet.

"No. No ambulances. Call my driver, tell him to take her to the hospital. Bella, you can go."

"Should I call someone to have the carpet cleaned, sir?" Anthea asks.

"No, don't bother; the cleaners will be round this evening. They'll take care of it."

"Yes sir." She turns and walks out, followed eventually by a shellshocked Bella.

Alone, I place my elbows on my desk and lean forward, resting my head in my hands. It seems my little brother has grown up. Well, hardly surprising – he is almost thirty, after all – but this is the first time I've been forced to see him as a man, not a little boy. Not only is a he a man; he's just proved himself to be a cold, dangerous man. I underestimated him. I underestimated him, and Bella paid the price. She'll have those scars forever. I don't know much about medicine, but surgery can only accomplish so much. It looks like I'll have to find another way to keep an eye on Sherlock.

**FRIDAY**

"What is it, Anthea? I'm very busy."

My PA is standing just inside the door, but I don't think she dares come any further into my office at the moment. I will be the first to admit that my mood hasn't been all that good this morning, not after my meeting with Sherlock yesterday.

"You have a visitor, sir."

Two seconds race by while I rack my brains trying to think of any appointments which may have slipped my mind. There aren't any, of course – even if I were prone to forgetfulness, Anthea has maintained an extremely up-to-date schedule and any changes are emailed to me as soon as they're made.

"Did this visitor give you their name?" I ask. It's not as sarcastic a question as you may think; many of the people who come to see me aren't in the habit of giving names to strangers unless they're certain those strangers can be trusted.

"Yes sir, she says she's your—"

That's as far as she gets before my mystery guest shoves the door open and inadvertently knocks Anthea flying with it.

You know, I like to think of myself as a tolerant man. Not a _nice_ man, but a tolerant one. However, there are one or two things that really, truly annoy me. One of those happens to be people who come into my office (or any room I happen to be working in) without knocking. I'm also not overly fond of people who hit my PA with my office door, although I appreciate that's a somewhat rarer aversion.

Right away, I realize that my initial thought was wrong. It's not Sherlock back for another gloat. Nor is it that Hudson woman who seems to have taken him under her wing (I suppose she means well, but I very much doubt she's capable of caring for someone like my brother. I did offer to pay her a substantial sum to leave my brother to me, and nearly got my skull caved in with a rolling pin). It's not even a professional assassin; it's someone even less welcome.

"Mycroft!"

"Mother? What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you, darling. Why don't you have your secretary make me a cup of tea or something, it's been a very long trip."

Anthea doesn't move an inch. Instead she looks at me, waiting for my orders. Good.

"She is not my secretary, Mother, she's my PA. Don't bother with the tea, Anthea; Mrs Holmes won't be staying long and I need those notes from the latest Cabinet meeting typed up before you go to lunch."

This will take her a while, I know. Not because she's a slow typist, but because the notes happen to be a) seventeen pages long, b) extremely detailed and c) written by Henry, whose handwriting is so atrocious that even he struggles to read it sometimes. I don't really need them before lunch – although I could do with having them before the end of the day – but I want Anthea out of my office. Besides, ordering her to make tea for the same woman who just hit her with a door would quite literally be adding insult to injury, and the fewer witnesses to Mother's appalling behavior, the better.

Yes, I know. You might think that a man in his late thirties would be too old to be embarrassed by his mother. Unfortunately, I seem to be the exception which proves the rule.

Anthea, bless her, turns smartly on her heel and walks back to her office, closing the door behind her before Mother's indignation reaches apocalyptic levels.

"Well, Mother? What do you want? Do please make it quick, I have a lot to do today."

"You might have offered me a cup of tea, Mycroft."

Had it been anyone else, I would have done, but I know Mother. Give her a cup of tea and she'll plant herself in your chair for a minimum of ninety minutes.

"This isn't my house, it's my office and I am at work. I can give you—" I take my watch out of my waistcoat and examine it— "two and a half minutes. After that, Mother, I will call security and have you removed."

"I do wish you wouldn't call me that, darling. It sounds so formal."

"Tough." I seldom defy Mother so openly, but Sherlock, who hates her only a very little more than he hates me, pointed out rather cruelly that at my age it was about time I stopped referring to her as _Mummy_. While I don't often turn to my little brother for advice on family relationships, I had to admit he was right on that score, although I will never, ever give him the satisfaction of letting him know.

"Well?" I say after Mother's been sulking for two of the two and a half minutes. Unfortunately, she has raised sullenness to an art form. Her favorite way of punishing both Sherlock and me when we were children was to withdraw completely. On one memorable occasion when my brother was ten, I seem to remember Mother going into a second, more pronounced sulk because apparently Sherlock had failed to notice the first one. Complete withdrawal is not an effective means of punishing my little brother; he never wants to interact with people anyway.

Mother draws herself up. "Really, Mycroft dear, you might make a bit more of an effort. I came all this way—"

"You weren't invited and you didn't even have the common courtesy to call before turning up."

"I've given up calling you, darling; your secretary always refused to put me through."

In fairness to her, this is quite true. In a moment of madness, I gave Mother my work number and got pestered with telephone calls from her at least three times a day. After four days of this, I instructed my last PA to add her name to the amber list, which is reserved for people I may agree to speak to, but only if they tell my PA what they want first. (This is to ensure that Mother can get hold of me in a genuine emergency, as opposed to whenever's she's bored).

"Tell me what you want, Mother, and then please leave."

Mother draws herself up with stiff _hauteur_. "I came to see you."

"Clearly. I assume there was some reason for this? You are seeing me on Sunday, after all."

"Well, dear, I thought you and Sherlock and I might go out for lunch."

I should probably explain that Mother isn't as stupid as she sometimes sounds. She's not on a par with Sherlock or myself, of course, but then nobody is. However, she does have a tremendous blind spot where my little brother is concerned.

It isn't that she wants him back in the family, exactly; that I could understand. Mother worships the ground I walk on, and can't quite accept that Sherlock doesn't. I think she believes that if he's exposed to me enough, he'll begin lavishing the adoration upon me that Mother feels is my due. (I would like to point out that I do nothing to encourage this worship from her, besides existing).

"I don't think that would be a good idea. Sherlock wouldn't come, anyway."

"Darling, don't you think this silly feud has gone on long enough?"

This is Mother's other great delusion; she seems to think that I can end the feud with a snap of my fingers, and that I'm just a little jealous of my younger brother, and think that Mother loves him more than me. None of this is true.

Well, most of it isn't true. To be honest, I am slightly jealous of Sherlock; at least he's free to do as he pleases. When I was younger, I always thought he was stupid to run away at fifteen. Now I'm beginning to wonder if, instead, he was extremely intelligent. At least his boyhood dreams never had to be sacrificed to Mother's ideal, unless of course you count that ridiculous notion of being a pirate and I don't think Mother can be held responsible for his losing that dream. I think the real world crushed Sherlock's fantasy of ruling the high seas. Just as well; my little brother has a capacity for cruelty (thankfully seldom indulged) that would make Blackbeard look like Mother Teresa.

"What I _think_ is that I'm too busy to go anywhere, Mother. Good morning. You can see yourself out."

"After I came all this way—"

"Without an invitation and without warning. If you'd thought to get in touch first, your pointless drive would have been avoided." I return to my work. "Why don't you make a day of it? Go and see a show on the West End or something. There must be a good play on somewhere."

"I don't have a—"

Before she's finished saying the word _ticket_, I've picked up the phone.

"Anthea?"

"Yes sir?"

"Book a box in the name of Agatha Holmes for any matinee performance you can find and email me the details."

Five minutes later, she calls back.

"Sir? I was only able to find one—"

"Then do as I said and book it."

"_The Rock of Ages_, sir?"

The thought of Mother going to that show makes even me pause for a second. I've never seen it, of course, but the title does a very good job of summing up the show's nature. Of course, it could be a scientific effort detailing key geological features of the Earth throughout various periods in the planet's history, but somehow I doubt it.

"Is that _really_ the only one?"

"It's the only one I can find with a Friday matinee, sir. Do you still want me to book it?"

"Yes, please do."

A few minutes later, an email arrives with details of the booking. I print it off and hand it to Mother.

"There you are. Shaftesbury Theater, any cab will be able to take you there. The show starts at five thirty, so there's plenty of time for you to get lunch." I get to my feet and propel Mother towards the door as courteously as I can, ignoring her protests, and shepherd her out the door, closing it very firmly behind her. After considering for a split second, I wedge a chair under the door handle and leave Anthea to deal with Mother.

It's a shame Sherlock isn't speaking to me. I have a feeling he'd rather enjoy hearing about this one.

**SATURDAY**

Thanks to Anthea, I don't have a great deal to do today. My filing has been filed, my appointments and meetings have all been scheduled, my phone calls have been returned and – wonder of _wonders_ – I have no meetings today. This last one has nothing to do with Anthea, of course, but it's still a very welcome change. I might even be able to get home by four o'clock.

Anthea herself isn't in. I made up my mind right from the start that I would only call her in on a Saturday for meetings or emergencies; she does have three children to look after and I really don't need her on the weekends, not to mention I can't help feeling I owe her a little compensation for Mother's treatment of her yesterday.

Thinking of that reminds me. I pick up the phone, call Mother and tell her I'm not going to be down for my weekly visit tomorrow. This prompts a burst of strident complaints which only end when I hang up on her. Not something I'm in the habit of doing, but Mother really can be infuriating and she never has anything interesting to say. Besides, I saw her yesterday, albeit under protest.

Mother, never one to take such a delicate hint as having the phone slammed down on her, keeps ringing back. At last I lift the phone up, put it back down and then take it off the hook. She doesn't know my mobile number.

I start sorting through the small pile of paperwork that has somehow appeared between my going home last night and coming in this morning. Quite where it all comes from is a mystery to me.

Organizing and dealing with it takes a couple of hours (when you're dealing at my level, simply stuffing paperwork in files or in the shredder is unfortunately not an option).

There's an email from Bella's irate family demanding I pay a) compensation and b) the cost of any reconstructive surgery she needs, and I send a polite response agreeing to the second but not the first. Bella was a field agent and field agents sometimes get hurt. I see no reason to compensate someone for just doing their job. No one's ever offered _me_ compensation for the extreme boredom I suffer with some of my colleagues.

**SUNDAY**

Habit wakes me at six thirty and Mother phones at five past nine, wanting to know why I'm not at the estate. Unfortunately I can't unplug the phone to stop her; as a vital member of the British government, I'm under constant surveillance for my own safety.

MI5 are very diligent when it comes to looking after me. They are also very good at putting two and two together and coming up with five. This means that if my phone is suddenly yanked out of the wall, MI5 assume I'm being stalked by a ruthless assassin or locked in a life-and-death struggle, and they tend to react accordingly. I'm tired of paying compensation to my neighbors because they've had their fruit trees decapitated by a governmental helicopter again (the Secret part of Secret Service seems to have passed them by).

I tell her I'm not coming down today, purely to stop her thinking that I've been killed or hideously mangled in a car accident, and put the phone down. Two seconds later, it rings again. I let the answering machine pick it up and turn the volume right down.

I'm at a bit of a loose end today. Normally Sundays are spent being driven to the estate in Wiltshire, sitting in the drawing room while Mother gushes over me (tedious, but it keeps her happy) and then being driven back in the evening. This is the first time in several years when I've had an entire day free and I don't quite know what to do with myself. Should I go for a walk? Stay in and read books? The Diogenes Club is closed for refurbishment and wouldn't have opened until four in any case. Henry, who's possibly the closest thing I have to a friend, is a family man and Sunday is Family Day, complete with the traditional roast. I have eaten with his family on occasion, but never alone and _never_ without some form of invitation, so visiting him is out.

I sit down with The Times and a pen. Doing all the crosswords kills about half an hour. Now what?

Ten minutes later, when the boredom has reached critical levels, I open up the laptop. Part of Anthea's story intrigued me; namely the part where she found herself suddenly responsible for her sister's three children. Either she was lying about not knowing what happened to her sister, or it was too painful for her to talk about, or she honestly doesn't know.

For want of something better to do, I decide to run a search for Anthea's sister. In the normal run of things, this would be rather tricky, but fortunately I am not a normal man and I have access to search engines that are rather more specialized than Google.

Two and a half hours later, however, I am stymied. So far Anthea's account of what happened to her sister matches the facts: Alison Turner, _nee_ Davis, moved with her husband to the States five years ago. Just over a year ago, her three children Oliver, Sandy and Brittany were discovered two miles away from their parents' house. When the police went to the house, every light in the place was on, the doors were locked from the inside and the house itself was deserted. A thorough search turned up nothing untoward.

Every single search I run comes back empty. The children came out of the house, the parents didn't. If they locked the children outside for some reason, why didn't the police find any trace of Alison and her husband inside? Curious.

I spend several more hours cross-referencing every link I have with no success. There were no bodies found, the investigations all showed that nobody besides the family members entered the house, no signs of a struggle, nothing. I suppose the children may have some idea what happened that night, but if Anthea's to be believed – and somehow I don't think she was lying – then they're not talking.

For a moment I think about tricking Sherlock into investigating, then common sense prevails. I don't want to encourage him to go traipsing all over the place. Far better for him to settle down and start doing something useful with his life, although I'm not certain what. Mother once suggested he come to work for me, and Sherlock's and my combined refusal was so vehement that even Mother backed down. It's probably the only time my brother and I have agreed on anything.

Well, at least Anthea seems to be working out as my new PA. It's been a rather hectic week. I hope she doesn't think an encounter with my brother _and_ my mother is going to be typical of her workload, otherwise the poor girl will probably resign within a fortnight.

Still, on the whole, I'm rather pleased with her. Maybe having a new PA won't be so bad after all...

* * *

**Well, that's the end of this little story, though I may do a couple more from Mycroft's POV; he's an interesting character to write XD Hope you liked it and if you read, please review :)**


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